Title
by SayShe
Summary: Post-op Ambrose/DG drabble. DG wants something from Ambrose and one way or another she's going to get it, because she's a resourceful sort of girl. Really, he should give up now.


**Title **

by: SS

Ambrose-Glitch/DG

* * *

His calling her 'princess' had resulted in many instances of hair pulling and foot stomping on her part and confused frustration on his. Something he had encountered before, many times, in his experiment yet was ill-equipped to deal with in the world outside his lab. For where experiments were concerned a bit of tweaking here and rewiring there and frustration would give way to accomplishment. But whatever was he supposed to do when the cause was a human girl?

He had absolutely no idea. This was _not_ his area of expertise. If tweaking and rewiring were in order he simply did not have the tools.

So whenever they came to this altercation (twice a day on a good day) Ambrose would fall back on the tried, tested and true method of logicing his way out of any situation. But even as he pulled her hands from the intricately weaved locks piled on her head, now lopsided; even as he braced her at the shoulders to spare her slippered feet and explained, using all the logic he commanded, as to why he absolutely could not comply with her unreasonable demand; he saw it coming.

He wasn't at all prepared regardless. Never.

And he'd stare at her, and at his chest, and wonder just what her fist was doing perching there as pain blossomed underneath it. It was just such and un- .. un-_princess_ sort of thing to do! What, hitting with a closed fist like –like some sort of common ruffian. And wholly unjustified!

Logic had never failed him so thoroughly. Probably because the princess seemed to possess none of it.

DG.

She wanted him to call her _DG_.

Or to 'cut out that princess crap already' as she so crudely put it.

Having learned from experience she'd try again he secured her fist with his hand and racked his brain for another solution. This could not go on.

What was it he had done when she was younger? Ambrose strained to remember. He had found himself on the receiving end of the littlest princess's lack of impulse control quite often in her youth. He was forever dodging tiny hands and feet for his crimes of being 'too stuffy.' But back then she'd been half-high to his hip and it was almost endearing, now at twenty something annuals her capacity to inflict injury had increased exponentially.

Not that he truly believed her intent was to injure him but –he was tender –and here was bruising. And this simply had to come to a stop! He'd accomplished this end once before but be damned If he could remember how now.

After the reinstatement of his missing hemisphere most of his memories were returning home, most but not all.

Those of his most recent years were the worst off. The alchemists had explained that there was quite a bit of trauma crammed into that span of time, both mental and physical, so it was to be expected. It would take weeks upon weeks to return to full cognition, if ever at all.

For now that time was a jumble of running, lots of running, sometimes skipping, and would you believe _singing_? He could be wrong though. That could all just be a very, _very_ disturbing dream brought about by perioperative anesthesia.

Waking up on that operating table had been like waking up well and thoroughly soused. At least that's what he assumed it was like, never having indulged n spirits much himself. And he never would if this was the consequence, though he had been assured normally hangovers didn't persist for a whole week straight and that narcotic analgesics were the cause in the first place.

Not that he particularly wanted to remember that time in his life, he was aghast at retellings of his little 'escapade.' Sure being a hero was all well and good and something to write home about, the medal placed around his neck by the queen herself hung proudly in his study for all to see, but the person he had been; who trod though mud and dirt alike; who's hair defied natural laws of gravity; who allowed himself to be so brazenly informal with the princess as to call her DG, and incidentally land him in this fine mess; no, he wasn't sure at all he wanted to remember being that person. He shuddered at the thought in fact, his hand tightening over the said princess's fist in response.

Which was still planted firmly on his chest. The realization startled him and he jumped.

Damn but he'd done it again, hadn't he?

A nasty habit of his he'd marked as of late was being set adrift by his thoughts. Dreadfully embarrassing it was, but whenever it happened in the princesses company she would regard him with the most curious adoration.

Like she was doing now.

He hoped he wasn't blushing. A futile hope really as he felt the tips of his ears burning and a desperate need to escape. What if someone was to make use of this hallway right then and come upon them in this most precarious of positions; where his one hand rested on her shoulder and the other clutched one of hers to his chest?

The need to escape escalated as he envisioned the black smoke rising from the rumor mill as it began to grind the truth into something barely recognizable.

A compromise would have to be made.

"I.if you'll excuse me, there's an experiment t.that requires at.attending p.princess _DG_," he'd stuttered and stumbled and rushed at the end but there. he'd said it.

And boy she gave him the stink eye then! He gulped audibly, afraid she pull away her hand and have at him again because she really was a lively sort of girl for a princess and stronger then any lady he'd ever met and.. Err- he wasn't _really_ trying to restrain her because if he wanted to he surely could. Maybe. But to attempt to restrain the princess would be a greater offense then forgoing her title for her name.

She didn't hit him, thankfully, only sighed in a very disappointed manner that struck him only slightly less forcefully.

"We'll work on it," she promised and patted his chest before extracting her hand and continuing down the hall past him.

His hand however remained on his chest, trying to insulate the warmth that her -what can only be described as _fondling_- had created as he turned to watch her retreat. Trying to figure out if what he felt was dread –or something else.

A synapse in his brain misfired.


End file.
